Ted looked towards the board and made a face of surprise upon sighting his dart. ‘Who threw that?’ he asked.
To cut a long and very tedious story short, Uncle Ted’s second dart joined its fellow in the treble twenty, but his third, however, had ideas of its own and fastened its nose into the dreaded single one. The laughter and applause which followed this untimely blunder rang clearly and loudly, but not from any of those present who favoured the home team.
‘What a good lad,’ said Young Jack. ‘Good old Uncle Ted.’
The greengrocer left the Flying Swan that night in disgrace. Some say that like Judas he went forth and hanged himself. Others, who are better informed, say that he moved to Chiswick where he now owns three shops and spends six months of the year abroad.
Omally was leafing frantically through the pages of his book. ‘I am in big schtuck here,’ he said suddenly, brushing away a bead of perspiration from his brow. ‘In my haste to accept bets and my certainty of the Swan’s ultimate victory, I have somewhat miscalculated. The fix is in and ruination is staring me in the beard.’
Professor Slocombe took the book from Omally’s trembling fingers and examined it with care. ‘I spy a little circle of treachery here,’ he said.
‘The Four Horsemen needs one hundred and forty-one,’ gasped the adjudicator.
‘I am finished,’ said Omally. ‘It is back to the old country for me. A boat at the dock and before the night is out.’
Professor Slocombe was staring at the dartboard and shaking his head, his face wearing an unreadable expression. Pooley was ashen and speechless. But for the occasional bitow to the rear of the crowd, the Swan was a vacuum of utter silence.
Young Jack squared up to the board as Omally hid his face in his hands and said a number of Hail Marys.
Jack’s first dart pierced the treble twenty, his second the double, and his third the single one.
‘One hundred and one,’ mouthed the adjudicator in a manner which was perfectly understood by all deaf-mutes present.
Omally waved away a later punter proffering a wad of notes. ‘Away into the night with you,’ was all that he could say.
The adjudicator retired to the bar. He would say no more this evening and would, in all probability, make himself known for the rest of his life through the medium of notepad and pencil.
Norman, who had sacked the rest of the team, took the floor. He threw another blinding one hundred and eighty but it really didn’t seem to matter any more.
The Four Horsemen needed but a double top to take the Shield, and a child of three, or at a pinch four if he was born in Brentford, could surely have got that, given three darts.
Neville put the towels up and climbed on to the bar counter, knobkerry in hand. There was very likely to be a good deal of death and destruction within another minute or two and he meant to be a survivor at any cost.
Croughton the pot-bellied potman leant back in his beer crate refuge and puffed upon his cigarette. Up above, the night stars glittered eternally, and nothing there presaged the doom and desolation which was about to befall Brentford. ‘Oh look,’ he said suddenly to himself, as he peered up at the firmament. ‘Shooting
stars, that’s lucky. I shall make a wish on them.’
Upon the allotment a tiny figure moved. He was ill-washed and stubble-chinned and he muttered beneath his breath. At intervals he raised his head and called, ‘Edgar.’ No reply came, and he continued upon his journey, driven by a compulsion impossible to resist.
‘Four Horsemen to throw,’ said some drunken good-time Charlie who had no idea of the gravity of the situation. ‘The Four Horsemen needs forty.’
Young Jack appeared from the crowd, wielding his dreaded darts. He crossed the floor and approached the Professor. ‘You will not enjoy this, St Germaine,’ he spat. ‘Be advised that I know you for what you are and accept your defeat like the gentleman you are not.’
Professor Slocombe was unmoved, his glittering eyes fixed upon Young Jack. ‘If you want this to be sport,’ said he, ‘then so be it. If however you crave something more, then know that I am equal to the challenge.’
‘Do your worst,’ sneered Young Jack, now all bluster and bravado. ‘I am master of you.’
‘So be it,’ said Professor Slocombe.
Young Jack took the oche. Again his head turned one hundred and eighty degrees upon his neck as he gazed at the crowd. The Swan is finished,’ he announced. ‘Five years have passed and you have grown weak and complacent. Prepare to bow to a superior force. Say goodbye to your trophy, you suckers.’
A murderous rumble rolled through the crowd of home team supporters. There was a great stamping of feet and squaring of shoulders. Ties were being slackened and top buttons undone. Cufflinks were being removed and dropped into inside pockets.
Young Jack raised his dart and lined up for a winner. Neville took a sharper hold upon his knobkerry and patted at his loins to ensure that the cricketer’s box he had had the foresight to hire for the occasion was in place.
Omally smote the Professor, ‘Save us, old man,’ he implored. ‘I will apologize later.’
Professor Slocombe rose upon his cane and stared at his adversary.
Young Jack drew back his hand and flung his dart.
The thing creased the air at speed, then suddenly slowed; to the utter dumb-foundment of the crowd, it hung suspended in time and space exactly six feet three inches above the carpet and five feet from the board.
Professor Slocombe concentrated his gaze, Young Jack did likewise.
The dart moved forward a couple of inches, then stopped once more and took a twitch backwards.
The crowd were awestruck. Neville’s knobkerry hung loose in his hand. Great forces were at work here, great forces that he would rather have no part in. But he was here at the killing, and as part-time barman would do little other than offer support.
Every eye, apart from one ill-matched pair, was upon that dart. Supporters of both Swan and Horsemen alike wrinkled their brows and strained their brains upon that dart. Beads of perspiration appeared a-plenty and fell, ruining many a good pint.
The dart eased forward another six inches. Professor Slocombe turned his stare towards the glowing red eyes of his opponent. The dart retreated.
Young Jack drew a deep breath and the dart edged once more towards its target.
‘You wouldn’t get this on the telly,’ whispered Jim Pooley.
Old Jack suddenly put his wrinkled hands to the wheels of his chair and propelled himself towards the Professor.
‘Restrain that man!’ yelled Omally.
Pooley lurched from his seat, but, in his haste to halt the wheeling ancient, caught his foot upon a chair leg and tripped. He clutched at the table, overturning it, and blundered into Professor Slocombe, propelling him into the crowd. At this moment of truth the now-legendary all hell was let loose.
The night-black dart set forth once more upon its journey and thundered towards the board. Young Jack stood grinning as Pooley upset his infirm father and brought down at least another four people in his desperation. Omally struggled up and struck the nearest man a vicious blow to the skull.
Before the eyes of those stunned patrons who were not yet engaged in the fracas the dart struck the board. As it did so a devastating explosion occurred overhead which shattered the bar optics, brought down great lumps of plaster from the ceiling and upset the part-time barman into the crowd.
‘It is God!’ shouted Omally, hitting with a will. ‘He will stand no more!’
Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone fell away from the Captain Laser machine. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he whimpered, ‘I didn’t do it.’
The lights of the Swan suddenly dimmed as the entire world which was Brentford proper went mad.
‘It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me, I swear it.’
Nobody really cared. Outside something terrific was happening. Possibly it was the prelude to the long-awaited Armageddon, possibly earthquake, or tidal wave. Whatever it w
as, the darts fans were not going to be caught napping, and the stampede towards the door was all-consuming. A single darkly-clad figure wearing a brand of creosote aftershave was immediately trampled to oblivion beneath the rush.
As the patrons poured into the night the enormity of what had occurred became apparent. Shards of flaming metal were hurtling down upon Brentford. Great sheets of fire were rising from the tarmac of the Ealing Road as the surface met each blazing assault. Several front gardens were ablaze.
Pooley and Omally helped the fallen Professor to his feet. ‘It has begun,’ said John. ‘What do we do?’
‘To the machine,’ yelled the old man. ‘It would appear that Norman has served us well.’
Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone stood blankly staring at the screen. ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said repeatedly.
Omally was at his side in an instant. ‘Play it,’ he roared. ‘You are the kiddie, play it.’
Rathbone drew back in horror, ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘Something is wrong. I will have no part of it.’
‘Play it!’ Omally grabbed at the green hair and drew the stinker close to the machine. ‘You are the unbeatable master, play it.’
Nick drew up his head in a gesture of defiance. As he did so, he stumbled upon a chunk of fallen ceiling and fell backwards, leaving Omally clutching a bundle of green hair and what appeared to be a latex rubber face mask. The figure that collapsed to the Swan’s floor, now bereft of his disguise, resembled nothing more nor less than a young Jack Palance.
‘He’s one of them,’ screamed Omally, pointing to the fallen Cerean, and dancing dementedly. ‘He was never playing the machine, he was signalling with it. Get him, get him!’
Pooley hastened to oblige. ‘The left armpit, isn’t it?’ he growled.
The erstwhile paperboy backed away, covering his wedding tackle. ‘Not the armpit,’ he whimpered. ‘Anything but the armpit.’
Professor Slocombe was at the machine. ‘How does it work?’ he cried. ‘How does it work?’
‘Leave him, Jim,’ yelled Omally, ‘play the machine, Pooley, shoot the bastards down.’
Upon the allotments columns of pure white light were rising into the sky. The door of Soap Distant’s hut was wide open and a great glow poured from it, silhouetting dozens of identical figures gliding through the opening.
When the first great explosion occurred, a small dwarf in a soiled postman’s suit had flattened himself into a sprout bed, but now he arose to his full height and stared about in horror at the bizarre spectacle.
He bobbed up and down and flapped his arms, ‘Edgar,’ he shouted, ‘Edgar, help me, help me.’ The figures now pouring through the shed doorway were bearing down upon him, and the postman took to his tiny heels and fled. He plunged through the open allotment gates and paused only to assure himself that he still had a tight hold upon the pair of bolt-cutters he had been carrying. Without further ado he continued his journey, bound for a certain lock-up garage upon the Butts Estate, and destiny.
In the Swan, Pooley was at the controls. ‘There’s eight of them,’ he said, ‘moving in a V formation.’ His finger rattled upon the neutron bomb release button, and tiny beads of yellow light swept upwards towards the bobbing cones at the top of the screen.
‘Get them, Jim,’ screamed Omally. ‘Come on now, you know how it’s done.’
‘I’m trying, aren’t I? Get us a drink for God’s sake.’
Neville, who had fallen rather heavily but happily not upon his tender parts, was on all fours in the middle of the floor. ‘What the hell is going on?’ he gasped. ‘Get away from the counter, Omally.’
‘We’re breaking your machine,’ said the breathless Irishman.
‘But what was that explosion? My God!’ Neville pointed out through the Swan’s front windows. ‘Half the Ealing Road’s on fire. Call the appliances.’
Pooley bashed at the button with his fist and jumped up and down. ‘I’ve got one! I’ve got one!’
Overhead, but a little less loudly this time, there was another explosion, followed by the sound of faltering engines and a Messerschmitt dive-bomber scream.
Those present at the Swan ducked their heads as something thundered by at close quarters and whistled away into the distance. There was a moment’s deadly silence followed by a muted but obviously powerful report.
Another Cerean craft had fallen to Earth upon Brentford; given its point of impact, it was unlikely that Jim Pooley would ever again receive a threatening letter regarding an overdue library book.
‘There! There!’ Neville was pointing and ranting. ‘It is the third world war and we never got the four minute warning. I am withholding my vote at the next election.’
Small Dave struggled up from the gutter and shrieked with pain. He had been rather nearer to the library’s destruction and a sliver of shrapnel from the founder’s plaque had caught him in the backside.
‘Oh woe, oh woe, oh damn!’ he wailed. A less determined man would by now have called it a day and dived for the nearest foxhole, but loathing and hatred overwhelmed the postman, and nothing would turn him from his vendetta. Feeling tenderly at his bleeding bum, he raised the bolt-cutter to the garage lock and applied all his strength. He strained and sweated as he fought with the steel clasp. Finally, with a sickening crunch the metal gave, and the garage door swung upwards.
Small Dave stood panting in the opening, his features shining pinkly by the light of ten thousand blazing dog-eared library books. Sweat poured from his face as he surveyed the object of his quest. Snorting and wriggling in the eaves of the lock-up garage was Simon. A camel far from home.
‘Now that you have it,’ said a voice which loosened Small Dave’s bowels, ‘what are you going to do with it?’
The postman swung upon his blakeys. ‘Edgar,’ he said, ‘where in the holy blazes have you been?’
Norman had been almost the first man out of the Swan. As the explosion rang in his ears he had realized that big trouble was in store and that if he was to take his great quest to its ultimate conclusion, now was going to have to be the time.
Clutching his purloined micro-circuit to his bosom he had braved the rain of fire and legged it back to his shop and his workroom. Now, as the explosions came thick and fast from all points of the compass, he fiddled with a screwdriver and slotted the thing into place.
‘Power inductor,’ he said to himself, ‘will channel all the power from miles around directly into the apparatus. Wonderful, wonderful!’
Norman threw the much-loved ‘we belong dead’ switch and his equipment sprang into life.
In the Swan, the lights momentarily dimmed. ‘Another power cut,’ groaned Neville. ‘All I ruddy need, another power cut. Typical it is, ruddy typical.’
Pooley thundered away at the machine, watched by the Professor and John Omally, who was feeding the lad with scotch.
‘Go to it, Jim,’ Omally bashed Pooley repeatedly upon the back. ‘You’ve got them on the run. Here you missed that one, pay attention, will you?’
Pooley laboured away beneath the Irishman’s assault. ‘Lay off me, John,’ he implored. ‘They’re firing back. Look at that.’
The skyline upon the screen had suddenly been translated into that of the immediate area. The silhouettes of the flat blocks and the gasometer were now clearly visible. As the three men stared in wonder, a shower of sparks descended upon the screen from one of the circling craft and struck the silhouette. Outside, a great roar signalled the demolition of one of the flat blocks.
‘Get them, you fool, get them.’
Unnoticed, Raffles Rathbone edged towards the door and slipped through it, having it hastily away upon his toes towards the allotments.
The Swan’s lights dimmed once more.
In Norman’s kitchenette, lights were flashing, and a haze of smoke was rising from many a dodgy spot weld.
Norman sat at his console, punching coordinates into his computer, an ever-increasing hum informing him that the equipment was warming up nicely.<
br />
Clinging to the controls of a not altogether dissimilar console was a swarthy clone of a famous film star; Lombard Omega had taken the controls.
‘Treachery,’ he spat, from between his gritted and expensively capped teeth. ‘Thucking treachery! Those blastards have drawn us into a trap. Blugging change of government, I shouldn’t wonder. How many ships lost, Mr Navigator?’
The navigator shrank low over his guidance systems. ‘Four now, sir,’ he said, ‘no, make that five.’
‘Take us out of autopilot then, I shall fly this jalloping ship manually.’
One of the remaining blips vanished from the video screen of the Captain Laser Alien Attack machine.
‘Oh dear,’ said the Professor. ‘It had occurred to me that they might just catch on.’
‘There’s still another two,’ said Omally. ‘Get them, get them!’
There was now a good deal of Brentford which was only memory. The New Inn had gone, along with the library, and one of the gasometers was engulfed in flame. A falling craft had cut Uncle Ted’s greengrocery business cleanly out of the Ealing Road, which, survivors of the holocaust who favoured The Flying Swan were later to remark, was about the only good thing to come out of the whole affair. There had miraculously been no loss of life, possibly because Brentford boasts more well-stocked Anderson shelters per square mile than any other district in London, but probably because this is not that kind of book.
Pooley was faltering in his attack. ‘My right arm’s gone,’ moaned he, ‘and my bomb release button finger’s got the cramp, I can play no more.’
Omally struck his companion the now notorious blow to the skull.
‘That does it!’ Pooley turned upon Omally. ‘When trouble threatens, strike Jim Pooley. I will have no more.’
Pooley threw a suddenly uncramped fist towards Omally’s chin. By virtue of its unexpected nature and unerring accuracy, he floored the Irishman for a good deal more than the count of ten.
Professor Slocombe looked down at the unconscious figure beneath the beard. ‘If that score is settled, I would appreciate it if you would apply yourself once more to the machine before the other two craft catch wind of what is going on and switch to manual override.’
The Brentford Triangle (The Brentford Trilogy Book 2) Page 20